


Blank Canvas

by lenore_writing



Series: The Art Series [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Hobbit Kink Meme, M/M, Painting, abuse of art supplies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenore_writing/pseuds/lenore_writing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s artistic skills are really quite the turn on for a certain Mr. Turner. Written for the hobbit kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blank Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> I need to point out that no art supplies were harmed in the making of this fic.  
> Also, linseed oil is used for oil paintings (for thinning the paint and making the colours seem more translucent) and is theoretically edible, so I reckoned it would be safe to use for... recreational purposes. Still, don’t try this at home, kids.
> 
> For those who have never seen Dean’s gorgeous paintings, here’s a sneak peek:  
> http://www.angelfire.com/tx2/DeanO/gallery.html

It was a the spur of the moment thing.

They had all been enjoying a well-deserved weekend off after two weeks of night shoots and Aidan had used the opportunity to enjoy a hell of a lot of extra sleep on the first day. But a human being could only sleep so much, even someone as needful of rest as Aidan was, and so on his second day he had stuffed his camera and a bag of sandwiches into the boot of his car to go on a New Zealand road trip. 

Aidan wasn’t too familiar with the concept of road trips. Ireland was, well, Ireland: one could go for a drive, of course, but a lad from Clondalkin didn’t really do that. Driving down those stonewalled roads was a touristy thing and Aidan preferred to stay as far away from that as he possibly could. After twenty-two and a half minutes every oh so picturesque country road became a dreary pain in the arse. He’d rather have a pint down the pub and play a game of pool.

But New Zealand had proven to be a place where road trips were not only entirely acceptable, but actually pleasurable. So he had had a long drive around, enjoying the scenery and Jim Morrison’s voice on his iPod, taking the occasional break for a picture and a bite to eat. It was blissful; so blissful in fact that after returning to Wellington he found himself at the front door of Dean’s rented house. He needed someone to share his sunlight- and freedom-induced high with and Dean was the only one Aidan knew who would understand. 

When Dean opened the door it took Aidan three blinks and a lopsided grin before he could force the word ‘hi’ out. Dean was out of his normal attire of t-shirt, hoodie and jeans and was wearing... well, not a hell of a lot, to be honest. Faded jeans hung low on his hips and a raggedy white, sleeveless shirt that was two sizes too small and showed more than it covered were all. Both were covered in dots and stripes of paint.

“Hey!” Dean said, smile wide and inviting. He had one glance at Aidan’s car in his driveway, then looked back up at his friend. “Out for a spin?”

“Yeah, I went on a bit of a road trip. I took pictures!” Aidan could feel some of his enthusiasm slip away as he looked at Dean again. “Are you busy?”

“I was painting.”

Ah, that explained the colourful splatters, then. Aidan was certain Sherlock Holmes would be proud of his powers of deduction.

“Oh, right. In that case...” And Aidan was already backing off again with an ever so slightly disappointed shake of his head and an apologetic smile. 

“Nonsense. Come in! If you don’t mind me finishing up. It won’t take long. It’s getting dark soon anyway and I need the light.” Dean trailed off, leaving it up to Aidan to decide whether or not he felt like watching someone smear paint on a square of canvas was entertainment enough for an evening.

“No, no. Of course I don’t mind.” And with that Aidan was already inside, the door closing behind him. 

“Come on up then,” Dean cheerfully exclaimed, already halfway up the stairs again, taking two steps at a time. Aidan followed leisurely, taking in Dean’s home away from home. It was always nicer at Dean’s place than it was at his own. His apartment was a dump, but Dean’s house was comfortably lived in with wide windows and the scent of cooking in the air. Not that Dean was anywhere near a Michelin star cook, but he could throw together a mean spag bol. It felt like a home, whereas Aidan’s place was as cosy as a tomb. 

When Aidan finally arrived upstairs he found himself on a tiny landing with two doors. One was closed, the other ajar, sunlight filtering through the crack. This was a part of the house he hadn’t been to before, but he gathered it was safe to assume that Dean was behind the open door. 

He was right.

It was the bedroom, which was pretty much what Aidan had expected. The bed, which should have been the centre of attention in the room, had been shoved against one of the walls, creating a large open space near the window - a large open space which was currently covered in old newspapers, tubes of paint, a plethora of brushes, boxes, and empty and half filled canvasses in all shapes and sizes. There was an easel as well, on which stood a painting. Or at least that’s what Aidan assumed it was: he could only see the back of it. Dean, who had position himself behind the easel again with a brush in one hand and a palette in the other, poked his head around the canvas.

“Welcome to my studio!”

“It’s nice. Very studio-like. Not like a bedroom at all,” Aidan replied with a smile, dropping down on the edge of the bed. Dean chuckled and winked.

“This room has the best light.”

“Ah,” Aidan said, kicking off his trainers and folding his long legs beneath him.

He knew absolutely nothing about art. Oh, he knew what he liked when he saw a painting or a picture. He did have taste – or perhaps a lack thereof, as some of his mates back home preferred to say. He certainly liked photographs, but he knew absolutely nothing about paints and brushes and – what was the crappy black stuff they had once used at secondary school? – oh yeah, charcoal. 

Dean, in the meantime, seemed to revel in it. He had once told Aidan that he liked to paint, that it helped him to calm his mind when the rest of his crazy little world was nothing but chaos and insanity. Despite the fact that he knew shit about artistic endeavours, Aidan had found it surprisingly intriguing to learn that Dean did know stuff. But then Dean knew a lot of stuff that Aidan didn’t, which was possibly the reason why Aidan liked him so much.

That and his accent. And those dimples. And that constant little smirk. And those lips. And the way his hair grew into curls when it became a tad bit too long. And the way he tended to say far out shit out of the blue which always made Aidan laugh a little too loud. 

Alright, so perhaps Aidan had a little crush. A manly, innocent crush. A bromance. Yeah, that’s what it was. Like Matt Damon and Ben Affleck.

A bromance in which it was perfectly fine to stare at the way Dean’s jeans clung to his arse, or to watch how the muscles in Dean’s arm flexed when he transferred his brush from palette to picture. Aidan wondered if Ben had ever looked at Matt that way. Probably. Possibly. Yeah, right.

They were both silent, Dean already lost in his art again. Aidan didn’t mind. He had never seen Dean paint before and the sight was rather lovely. Whereas Dean was usually as restless as Aidan, he was as still as a marble statue when he applied paint to canvas, his face relaxed and the blue of his eyes intense as he concentrated on where he placed his brush. There was something strangely erotic about it all and Aidan couldn’t quite decide what it was. Maybe the passion burning in Dean’s eyes, the way with which he dedicated himself to his art as if it were a lover? Aidan didn’t know, but his body decided that the sight alone was enough to stir things south of his belt. 

He fidgeted, sat still, then fidgeted again to keep his prick from pushing against his zipper. 

“You alright there?” Dean suddenly asked, looking straight at him. Aidan stopped twitching as if a switch had been flipped and stared as wide eyed at Dean as if his nan had found him with his hand in the biscuit tin. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Perfect. Fine.” Aidan wanted to slap himself. If he had jumped up and danced a jig it couldn’t have been more awkward than his reply. Could he be any more obvious? Possibly not, unless it included smashing a brick into Dean´s handsome visage.

Dean, cocky bastard that he was, merely smirked. “Bored yet?”

“Nope, not a bit.” As if Aidan would ever get bored of watching Dean O’Gorman’s arse.

“In that case would you mind giving me a hand?”

Aidan’s brain did a pretty decent job of trying to short-circuit at those words. He could give Dean a hell of a lot more than a hand if he wanted, starting with his entire body, but of course Aidan didn’t say that. Instead he nodded and asked, “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

Dean gesticulated in the general direction of the floor. “There’s a tube of sienna down there somewhere.” He smiled at Aidan’s look of confusion and added, “Sort of an orangey brown. Can you top me up?”

“Yeah,” Aidan said, already up on his feet to search for the colour in question, which was quite a feat in the disorganised chaos on the floor. At least it took his mind off a certain tightening in the crotch area. Finally he came up trumps with something that looked brown enough for his taste and with a soft ‘ah’ he held up the tube for inspection.

What happened next was entirely Dean’s fault, or so Aidan later decided.

Aidan straightened up, Dean bent down, and with a ferocious blow that could have put the Big Bang to shame – or at least that’s what it sounded like to Aidan – their heads bashed together. 

The words ‘oof’ and ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ were uttered simultaneously, like singing the wrong lyrics to the same song. Of course, to make matters even worse, the tube, the palette and the brush all dropped to the floor, creating a messy explosion of colour. Aidan winced and rubbed his forehead, a laugh bubbling up in his throat when he saw Dean do the same.

“Fuck, Aid. Not funny,” Dean muttered, nose scrunched up and eyes pinched shut. It took Aidan less than a second to be up in Dean’s personal space, hands on Dean’s face to turn his head towards the light to inspect the damage. “Sorry, sorry. Are you alright?”

“I think I’ve turned blind,” Dean moaned, but Aidan could easily detect Dean’s dry sense of humour underlining those words.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Aidan asked, raising two and making Dean chuckle and shake his head against the one hand still cupping his face.

“Eight, you dipshit. Christ, there are easier ways to kill me if that’s what you want to do.”

Aidan smiled and shrugged as his fingers carefully probed the red mark that had started to appear on Dean’s temple.

“Nah, you’re too cute to kill.”

He only realised what he had actually said when Dean went as still as the dead, eyes widening comically. Aidan reckoned that was probably a good time for the earth to open up and swallow him whole, but as was so often the case that did not happen. Instead he laughed nervously, hand running through his hair as he tried to backtrack like an idiot. 

“Erm, sorry. I... What I mean is...”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Dean interrupted, blue eyes strangely intense, making a shiver run down Aidan’s spine. There was a sudden flurry of movement – Dean’s hands coming up to tangle roughly in Aidan’s hair – and then they were kissing like starving beggars at a King’s feast.

There was nothing gentle about it. It certainly wasn’t the romantic kiss on the beach or the drunken brush of lips Aidan had imagined in that secret little place of his mind where he tended to store dreams and desires. No, it was as if a dam had burst: a sudden and catastrophic surge of feelings and emotions, now finally unleashed after being held back for a long time. 

Hands tugged on hair as mouths were finally allowed to devour. It was a sweet battle of tongues and lips and teeth, exploring one moment, soothing the next. After a particularly sharp nip to Dean’s lower lip Aidan finally pulled away, hazel eyes meeting blue.

“This alright?” Aidan asked, fingers tracing the curve of one of Dean’s ears. Dean laughed and shook his head. “If you have to ask then I’m doing it wrong.”

Aidan chuckled, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. Once again he had acted before thinking things through, but Dean didn’t seem to mind. He certainly wasn’t stopping Aidan when he tugged at Dean’s paint-ruined shirt and asked, “Off?” And then, almost as an afterthought, “Bed?”

Chuckling, Dean planted a quick kiss to the corner of Aidan’s mouth. “Off yes. Bed no. I don’t want paint on my sheets.”

And with those words Dean dropped to the floor, pulling Aidan, who was actually rather enjoying the sight of Dean on his knees in front of him, with him.

“Here,” Dean said, smearing paint all over the newspaper-covered floor where his knee had landed in the mess left behind by his palette. Aidan knew his own clothes weren’t faring much better and he momentarily bemoaned the ruination of his favourite pair of jeans. Then Dean attacked his neck with that lovely mouth of his and Aidan ceased to care.

He sighed and pushed his crotch against Dean’s thigh, rubbing until the combined stimulation on cock and neck made heat bloom low in his abdomen. He cupped Dean’s face and brought it up, planting a swift, rough kiss to his mouth. Long fingers found the edge of Dean’s shirt, lifting it up so lips could tease the fragile length of a collarbone, the soft skin of a shoulder, the furry expanse of chest. Aidan wasn’t surprised when Dean shrugged off the rest of the shirt, then proceeded to tangle his hands in Aidan’s, sighing with every caress Aidan bestowed upon him.

Their clothes were dealt with, fingers ever so slightly clumsy on belt buckles and zippers, but otherwise swift and sure. There was an urgency to it all, almost as if one of them would stop if they were given the chance to consider what they were actually doing. 

In the end Aidan found himself on top of Dean, pushing his more compact frame against paper and paint, shamelessly rubbing their cocks together until he elicited another one of those lovely little sighs from Dean’s mouth. He pushed his face into Dean’s neck and inhaled the scent of shampoo and turpentine and somehow the combination seemed right.

Aidan would have happily gotten them both off like that, chest to chest and prick to prick, but it was Dean who paused him with a soft, “Wait.”

He sat up, much to Aidan’s chagrin, and rummaged in a box right beneath his easel, pulling out a small bottle and pushing it into Aidan’s hands.

“Linseed oil,” he explained as he laid down again, paint turning his golden locks ruby and azure. Aidan raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure what linseed oil was, but if Dean wanted to use it then Aidan wasn’t going to stop him. 

He got his fingers wet with the stuff until they gleamed in the early evening sun, then slowly trailed them down Dean’s body, dipping down and between.

At the first intimate brush of Aidan’s fingers Dean leaned back even further, legs falling open, thighs quivering. Aidan bent down, taking Dean’s mouth in a messy kiss that was more tongue than lips, then breached Dean’s body with two impatient fingers. Dean half moaned, half yelped into Aidan’s mouth, trying to catch his tongue between his teeth, but Aidan was faster. He latched his lips onto Dean’s neck, right at the tender spot between ear and collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark that would be visible for ages. 

“Christ,” Dean whimpered, hips pushing against Aidan’s hand with lustful enthusiasm. 

“Good?” Aidan mumbled against Dean’s skin, fingers twisting and moving until Dean was a sweaty, jabbering mess beneath him, sighing ‘fuck’ and ‘Aidan’ and ‘right there’ into Aidan’s mob of dark curls. Aidan pulled his fingers out, one knuckle rubbing roughly against Dean’s perineum, before plunging back in again, scissoring deep, making Dean groan beautifully.

“You’re loud,” Aidan said, pretty fucking mesmerised by that discovery. Somehow he had always suspected Dean to be the silent type, but apparently he had been wrong.

Dean opened heavy-lidded eyes, face contorting as Aidan rubbed purposefully against his prostate, then grinned lazily. “Are you complaining?”

Aidan smiled, thrusting deep one last time, before he pulled his fingers out entirely. He leaned towards Dean, so close that their noses were touching. “It makes me want to fuck you so hard Fili will have a permanent limp.”

Dean chuckled breathlessly, hands digging into Aidan’s curls to pull him even closer, and whispered, “Then do it.”

That was all Aidan needed. He found the bottle of oil, took all of five seconds to pour half of it over his cock and the other half all over the floor, then settled between Dean’s thighs. He held Dean’s gaze as he rocked forward, sheathing himself with a low, guttural rumble. Dean’s answering moan made a shiver run down Aidan’s spine, hot and intoxicating, his prick twitching where it was buried deep inside Dean.

Aidan wondered if he should slow down, draw out the moment, but one look at Dean’s head thrown back against a halo of acrylics, chest sweaty and heaving, fingers scrambling against the paint-splattered newspapers, was enough to throw that idea right out of the window. He hoisted Dean’s legs up, making Dean squirm and whimper, and settled them on his shoulders, practically folding Dean in half when he bent forward to steal a kiss. 

“Ready, darlin’?” Aidan drawled, bracing himself on his elbows, long fingers rubbing even more paint into Dean’s hair. He felt equally wet and sticky hands trailing down the length of his back to settle on his arse, pulling him impossibly deeper. Aidan moaned and very nearly missed Dean’s hissed, “Shit, yes.”

What followed was wild, frantic and unbelievably bloody good. 

Aidan rolled his hips in steady, measured strokes, making Dean breathe hot puffs of air against his ear with every withdrawal, and sob quietly with each plunge forward. Their lips met messily, passionately, and it was all Aidan could do to not lose it right then and there. He let his tongue roam in tandem with his hips, then bit down and pulled on Dean’s bottom lip with his teeth. 

“Dean. You are... so... fuckin’... good,” Aidan rambled as he let his lips travel down Dean’s bearded chin, coherency having deserted him. He sat back on his haunches, ignoring the cruel push of short fingernails into his buttocks at the change in position, and looked down, admiring Dean’s supine form, his cock red and hard against his belly. The sight alone made heat flow like lava through Aidan’s veins. With a soft moan he pushed forward again, changing the angle of his hips until he had Dean shuddering beneath him, the muscles of Dean’s calves flexing against Aidan’s shoulders.

“That the spot, love?” Aidan panted, repeating the movement and watching with fascination as Dean threw back his head and gasped a long, drawn out, “Ahhh!”

Aidan didn’t need any more encouragement than that. The luxurious rolling of his hips turned to sharper jabs, allowing his own pleasure to build up. 

“Touch yourself,” Aidan huffed against Dean’s ankle. One of Dean’s hands, trembling and paint-smeared, came up to wrap around his cock, staining his skin blue and purple and yellow and green. Aidan’s eyes widened at the sight, watching as if enchanted whilst the colours changed with every gyration of Dean’s hips, every pull of his fist. 

“Jesus,” he whispered and then there was nothing but friction and heat and a swirling spectrum of colours to swallow Aidan like a tidal wave. The cadence of his hips turned frantic and he let his teeth sink into the soft skin of Dean’s leg as he finally, earth-shatteringly came.

Through heavy-lidded eyes he looked down at Dean, who was still struggling towards completion. Then, with a lazy smile, he entwined his fingers with the hand that was still on Dean’s cock. Dean’s reaction was beautiful: he yelped soundlessly, head pushed back so far that he looked about to snap in two, and came with a broken sound of almost surprise. Watching Dean’s come mix with the paint on his stomach was without a doubt the hottest thing Aidan had ever seen and his cock gave a half-hearted twitch where it was still buried inside Dean. 

Slowly Aidan pulled out, letting Dean’s legs drop down as gently as he possibly could, then flipped down next to him. 

There was paint everywhere: in Dean’s hair, on his skin, tiny drops sinking into the light tufts of carpet where they had pushed the newspapers away in their haste, and damn if Dean’s landlord wasn’t going to have a fit over that. Aidan gently traced a smudge of red on Dean’s cheek and kissed his stubbly jaw.

“We’ve made a bit of a mess.”

“How perceptive of you,” Dean muttered breathlessly, twirling one of Aidan’s paint-encrusted curls around his finger. Aidan pulled a face – it was going to be an absolute hell to get that out – but he was happy to nuzzle his face against the palm of Dean’s hand regardless. 

“I’ll help you tidy up.”

Dean’s chuckle was exhausted but content. “And risk getting maimed by your thick skull again? I don’t think so.”

Aidan snorted, poking Dean in the stomach until he huffed and curled in on himself. “I said m’sorry.”

“So you said, but I’m still not entirely convinced you’re not trying to kill me.” Dean’s smirk was even cheekier than usual and Aidan smiled brightly in reply.

“That good, yeah?”

A blue-eyed wink was enough of an answer. “Don’t let it get to your head, Turner.”

Aidan harrumphed and watched as Dean’s eyes drifted closed, one of his hands settling on Aidan’s hip. They needed a shower, and badly at that, but Aidan was happy to wait a little longer. He closed his own eyes, then opened them again with a start when a thought popped into his head.

“Deano?”

“Hmm?”

“You owe me a new pair of jeans.”


End file.
